


Can't Wait to Blow My Candles Out

by cockybasketball



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: ?? is that a thing, Alternate Universe, Facials, Food Fight, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 11:47:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cockybasketball/pseuds/cockybasketball
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m fairly sure I’ve said this before,” Nick says, his tone as light and noncommittal as that of one discussing the weather, “but you definitely do look a lot prettier with your mouth full and sticky white stuff all over your face, princess.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Wait to Blow My Candles Out

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally written for nick's birthday, which i know was a while ago, shh. roll with it.
> 
> inspired by [this post](http://nialllhoran.tumblr.com/post/55618726052/spankmeniall-i-can-totally-imagine-louis), but i think i got a bit carried away. title from birthday cake by rihanna. peace!

Louis has always prided himself on being something of a nuisance; he’s an arse – with a deliciously perky one, at that – who, all in the name of a good laugh, thoroughly enjoys inflicting a little misery from time to time. Whether it be his closest friends or his worst enemies, Louis relishes in winding people up, and he bears no shame in admitting that.

At first, it wasn’t as though he went out of his way to be an outrageous pain in the backside; no, it was always just a witty or snide remark here and there, enough to make the individual on the receiving end blush a little. All of that has changed, however, since he first met Nick Grimshaw six months previously.

It’s not that he _hates_ Nick, not really. If he’s being totally honest, he actually does find him kind of hot in a tall, snooty, quiffy kind of way, but never in a million years would you get him to admit that. The thing is, though, Louis finds it extremely easy to get under Nick’s skin. He’s gathered that Nick isn’t used to being held at the mercy of a sharp tongue because he’s usually the one dishing out backhanded compliments himself (as he too has a tendency to stir up his own fair share of trouble), and Louis likes how flustered he gets when he’s offered a taste of his own medicine.

Of course, it was all fun and games to begin with. Harry – Louis’ best friend, going strong for three years now – had introduced them at a mutual friend’s party, assuming their shared love of mischief would result in the pair getting on like a house on fire. And looking back on it Louis supposes they probably _would_ have hit it off right away had they both not been eager to prove to the other that Harry liked them better, desperate for his approval. This lead to a constant stream of bickering, sarcastic smiles and banter that would often get a little out of hand; but it’s been _fun_ , is all. Louis gets a little thrill out of grinding Nick’s gears.

This time, however, Louis knows he’s probably taking things just a tiny bit too far.

One bright and sunny afternoon in early August, he strolls, head held high, into the small bakery and cake specialist that Harry’s been working in all summer and slaps down a photo of himself onto the counter. “Hello, Harold,” he says cheerily, flashing a dazzling smile at his friend. “I would like a custom-made cake with my face on it, please.”

Harry blinks at him owlishly. “You want a custom-made cake with your face on it,” he repeats.

“Yes!” comes Louis’ excited response. His smile remains firmly fixed in place even while Harry stares at him like he’s off his rocker. “I would also like it to have _Happy Birthday Nicholas_ written across the top in bright pink icing.”

He supposes he should probably have predicted the eye roll that follows. “Lou, I honestly don’t think this is healthy,” Harry sighs, picking at a stain on his apron.

Louis frowns. “I think everybody is entitled to a little cake on their birthday, Harr–”

“No, Louis, not the cake,” Harry interrupts, sharply cutting him off. He lets out an exasperated huff of a sigh and closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Can you not just pretend to like eachother? Not even for my sake?”

Harry’s desperately disappointed in both Louis and Nick for the way that their relationship has progressed in the past few months; he hates the fighting and the pranks every time he tries to get them to hang out together, and he hates being the one having to calm Nick down once Louis’ done pushing his buttons. Louis knows all of this, knows that he makes Harry want to tear his hair out on what is pretty much a daily basis, but he just can’t bring himself to stop.

Louis wrinkles his nose and decides not to dignify Harry with a response. “Could you have it delivered to this address, please?” he asks instead, handing over a post-it note with Nick’s address scribbled down on it.

Harry mutters something that sounds like “don’t know why the fuck I’m friends with either of you,” but takes the note and Louis’ photo with little more complaint, simply giving in completely when he realises Louis has no intention of backing down. “What kind of cake do you want, anyway?” he grunts. “And what sort of size?”

Taking a second to consider, Louis folds his arms across his chest and hums to himself thoughtfully. He wants to go for a kind of cake that he knows Nick will love so that he’ll end up eating it despite its decoration, scowling as he does. “You know Nicholas better than I do, Styles,” he says eventually. “What kind of cake tickles his fancy?”

“Your average Madeira will do fine.” Harry pulls out a notepad and begins jotting the details down. “We’ll go for circular and about thirteen inches in diameter, yeah? Then it’ll go round everyone at the party.”

Louis nods his approval.

“’nd then,” Harry says, glancing down at the photo Louis’ given him, “I suppose it’s quite a complicated design–”

“Thanks.”

“–So that’ll be around thirty quid, I would think,” he continues as though Louis hasn’t spoken. “More if you want it delivered. We’ll say thirty-five.”

Smiling widely and victoriously smug, Louis pulls out his wallet and fishes around inside for some notes. He passes them to Harry with a flourish, and the younger boy sighs, shoulders sagging in defeat as he feeds Louis’ cash into the till.

“Thanks mate!” Louis beams, shoving his hands in his pockets and turning as if to leave. “You’re a lifesaver, buddy.”

Harry rolls his eyes and clears his throat to catch Louis’ attention, making him spin back around to face the curly haired boy. “You’re still coming round Nick’s on Wednesday, yeah?”

Louis winks. “Wouldn’t miss a chance to make fun of that old man for the world, Haz.”

\-----------

When Louis arrives at Nick’s house the following Wednesday, a solid two hours and three glasses of wine later than planned, the party is already in full swing. It’s a fairly small gathering, with maybe somewhere between twenty and thirty people in attendance and all of them can be found littered around Nick’s back garden, drinking and laughing and dancing and eating what, from a distance, looks like a cake with Louis’ face on it.

“Lou-ayyyyyyyyyy!” exclaims an already drunk Greg James as he spots Louis sidling through the side gate into the garden. He scrambles up from where he’s sprawled out on the lawn and dashes over towards Louis, practically leaping on him and pressing a sloppy kiss to his cheek. “Tommo, Tommo, hey, Tommo’s here!” Greg chants, hanging off Louis’ arm as he advances further into the garden. “I just ate your nose, Tommo.”

It’s when he’s laughing, stumbling forward with Greg clinging onto him for dear life as they struggle not to topple over onto the lawn, that Louis spots the birthday boy himself. Nick’s sat back in one of his garden chairs, feet up on the table in front of him (a few inches to the left of where the remainder of the cake sits, now just over half eaten, only showing Louis’ mouth and down), a beer in his hand and an unreadable expression on his face.

Louis pulls Greg into a hug, clapping him on the back once, and then shoves the drunken idiot away, still laughing as he skips off to serenade Matt Fincham. “Y’alright, lad?” Louis smirks, skipping over towards Nick and perching his bum on the arm of his chair. “Happy birthday, Nicholas.” He pets Nick’s quiff.

Nick doesn’t react straight away, takes a long pull from his beer before he says, almost boredly, “You’ve got some nerve, Tomlinson.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, Grimshaw,” he hums. He leans over to cut himself a slice of cake, then settles back down in Nick’s lap, smiling toothily. “Nice cake, by the way.”

The expression on Nick’s face appears to be that of one torn between fondness, anger and mild annoyance. “Well, first things first, you’re late,” he says pointedly, bonking Louis on the nose with the neck of his beer bottle, “and then you have the cheek to turn up without a present.”

“I bought the fucking cake, mate,” he snaps, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Not bloody cheap, either, ‘cause it turns out mates discount isn’t something Harry’s heard of.” He says the last part loud enough for Harry, tongue down a short blonde’s throat on the other side of the garden, to hear him and gets a half-hearted wave of Harry’s middle finger in response.

“You’re an absolute arse, you know that?” snorts Nick, still a vague hint of steeliness in his voice. “Haven’t got a clue why Harry even bothers with you.”

Alright, so maybe there’s no fondness in his expression whatsoever. Louis narrows his eyes, the hairs on the back of his neck standing to attention, and switches his position so he’s now straddling Nick’s lap. The rest of the partygoers don’t appear to have noticed, or so Louis assumes from their merry chitchat he can still hear over his shoulder. Nick just stares at him, jaw clenching, mouth setting into a thin line.

“I often wonder the same thing about you, actually,” Louis mumbles thoughtfully, taking a bite of his cake. “I don’t really see how he has time for someone so _ungrateful_ , you know? I go out of my way to get you this beautiful, delicious cake–”

Nick laughs so violently at the word ‘beautiful’ that even Greg looks over from where he’s performing a hearty rendition of _My Heart Will Go On_. “See, maybe if you weren’t so cocky, Tomlinson,” he drawls as he lobs his now empty beer bottle onto the grass beside him, “I might actually be able to tolerate being in your company.”

Louis’ about to say something else, opens his mouth and gets half way through his sentence, even, before Nick cuts him off by shoving the remainder of Louis’ slice of cake into his face. He smears buttercream icing around Louis’ mouth, across his cheeks, in his fringe, smirking all the while.

“You _fucking_ ,” Louis starts, reaching behind him to grab as much cake as he can, ripping through it roughly with his fingers, “ _arsehole_.” He takes what’s in his hand, about a quarter of what was left, and practically slaps Nick across the face with it. Nick’s fighting desperately to shove Louis off his lap, but the younger male’s not giving in, clinging onto Nick as he besmirches his skin with icing and marzipan and the outline of his own chin.

Fuming, steam almost visibly flowing out of his ears, Nick shoves Louis to the floor – wrestling him to the ground with some difficulty – and sits on his chest. Happy, summery music is still thumping out from a boombox that’s been left on the table, but the idle chatter from the rest of Nick’s guests has stopped, replaced by the sounds of several people cheering (Greg and Matt included), violent laughter (that Louis can only assume is coming from his and Harry’s close friend Niall), and a distressed wail of “for the love of _God_ ” (as Harry stumbles in their direction, no doubt to tear the pair of them apart).

Nick reaches up to grab the plate with the rest of the cake on it from the table and wipes his hand over the top of it, picking up as much icing as he can, and then claps his palm over Louis’ mouth. Louis squawks and violently tries to shove Nick’s hand away, pushing at his arm and wriggling in a desperate attempt to get the elder male off him even as he cakes Louis’ lips and face in icing. He drags his hand away, sliding it upwards, laughing maliciously into Louis’ face as he plasters his cheeks too.

Louis coughs and splutters with Nick still sitting heavily on his chest. He’s quite aware that every single one of Nick’s guests has their eyes trained on the pair of them now, with possibly a few filming the assault on their phones, but he’s rather preoccupied by the fact that Nick is running one icing-covered hand through his hair and shoving a large chunk of Madeira cake into his mouth with the other.

“I’m fairly sure I’ve said this before,” Nick says, his tone as light and noncommittal as that of one discussing the weather, “but you definitely do look a lot prettier with your mouth full and sticky white stuff all over your face, princess.”

Honestly, as he chokes trying to swallow down the block of cake in his mouth and fights fruitlessly to throw Nick off him, Louis has never been so glad to have Harry intervene. The youngest, probably the least drunk and definitely the angriest of the three of them storms over, huge hands gripping at the back of Nick’s shirt as he hauls him backwards. Louis stumbles to his feet the second he can move again, attempting to lurch forward at Nick even as Harry grabs him with his outstretched hand, forcing himself between the pair.

“What the fuck is _wrong_ with you two?” Harry shouts, gripping both of them by the front of their shirts.

“Difficult to believe you’re turning 29, Nick,” Louis spits, ignoring Harry completely except to slap futilely at his arm, “because you honestly seem to have the same maturity level as my 12-year-old sister.”

“Somebody shut him up with more cake,” Nick cuts in, and a slightly nervous laugh ripples around the garden. He doesn’t look angry like Louis’ sure he himself does; and he’s surprised, really, because his quiff is in ruins, and Louis knows how much effort he puts into the damn thing. But no, instead of rage or malice there’s simply an almost evil smirk etched across Nick’s face and a mischievous glint in his eye.

Harry swears violently, harshly shaking the pair of them. “For fuck’s sake,” he mutters, and it sounds extremely distressed. He takes a minute to compose himself, closing his eyes and breathing deeply as though to prevent himself from ripping both Nick and Louis to shreds, and then says, in a voice of forced calm, “Go clean yourselves up, please.”

Unless you count Nick licking up the icing from around Louis’ mouth and then shoving his tongue down his throat as ‘cleaning up’, they do not get a lot of cleaning up done. Louis’ not really sure how it happens; he remembers knocking his shoulder into Nick’s on the way into the bathroom and chastising him for being in his way, but he’s not 100% certain on how he ended up perched on the edge of the sink, legs wrapped around Nick’s waist with the elder licking his face clean.

The kiss is messy and sweet (in a sugary sense. Nick is basically fucking Louis’ mouth with his tongue and grunting violently while he does so and there is absolutely nothing sweet about it) and Nick’s hands are still sticky with icing as he obnoxiously gropes at every part of Louis he can. Louis preens, huffs as Nick starts squeezing his bum, feels Nick smirk against his mouth, nipping at his bottom lip and humming approvingly.

Louis unhooks his legs and slides down from the sink, breaking their lips apart and grinning, pleased with himself, as Nick whines. He steers the taller male around, though his hands are still on Louis’ arse, and backs him into the wall before he kisses him again, feverish and incessant.

Harry had tried to follow them inside when they headed in for the bathroom, but at a snide comment from Nick about how they “weren’t fucking children” (Harry had arched an eyebrow and quipped “Could’ve fooled me,” in response) he’d agreed to stay outside with the rest of the guests. Nobody else had seemed all that phased, most of them finding the entire scene absolutely hilarious, and so were back to their prior partying in no time – leaving Louis and Nick alone to aggressively make out against Nick’s bathroom wall.

“Always knew you fancied me,” Louis teases, pulling back to lick the icing off Nick’s cheeks and chin. He’s joking, just trying to get a rise out of him, because really the only vibe he’s ever received from Nick is absolute infuriation; he fucking _hates_ Louis.

Grunting, yanking at Louis’ matted hair, Nick pulls him in for another kiss. “Shut up, Tomlinson,” he hisses into the corner of Louis’ lips, but he's smirking.

"No?" Louis chuckles into the side of Nick’s face, and pushes a dainty hand against his crotch, smiling as he whispers into his ear, "I take it you won't want your actual present, then.”

He watches Nick’s expression go from mildly confused to totally disbelieving to unbelievably turned on as he kisses him once, lightly, and then drops to his knees. He gets into an argument with Nick’s jeans, frustrated as he attempts to get his cock out (“How the _fuck_ do you even get these things _on?_ ”), but once he’s managed it he wastes absolutely no time in swallowing Nick down completely.

He gives himself a minute to adjust, nose pressed into Nick's abdomen, eyes watering as his throat constricts and he fights to relax it even as Nick hardens between his lips. He's done this enough times before to know what he's doing, what his body can and can't take, and he just needs a second; he can see how Nick's itching to get a hand in his hair, whining above him, and he doesn't want to keep him waiting longer than he has to. Louis blinks a few times, grazes his teeth gently along Nick's underside, and then he's bobbing his head quickly, gagging a little each time Nick hits the back of his throat.

He keeps eye contact with him the entire time, easing back to suck lightly on the head of his cock, eyes blown wide as he stares innocently up at Nick. Nick is groaning and panting above him, face still sticky with icing, twisting his hand into Louis’ hair and pushing him to take him all the way in again, further, faster, messier – he holds him still, fucks up into his face, sugary pink lips wrapped around Nick. “Prissy bitch,” he mutters, brushing a thumb across Louis' cheekbone, feeling himself through the skin of his cheek.

It’s quick and it’s messy, involves a lot of swearing on Nick’s part and a fair bit of choking on Louis’, but after a few minutes Nick’s close, shoving Louis off his cock and curling his own long fingers around the shaft. He pumps himself a few times as he stares down at Louis and says breathily, “Your face – fuck – I wanna come on your face.”

Louis considers. “Only if you lick it up like you did the icing,” he grins, voice wrecked, tongue darting out across his lower lip.

And with that Nick’s so gone, hand frantically working himself over, come spattering out across Louis’ cheeks and down his chin. He’s still partially covered in white icing, so it’s probably rather difficult to make out what’s what in the dim light from the lamp above Nick’s sink, but the birthday boy appears to like the look of Louis covered in his spunk because his current smirk is wider than Louis’ ever seen it.

Nick puts himself away, slides his jeans back up – they’re willing to cooperate with him, apparently – and pushes his drooping, pathetic quiff back off his face. He offers Louis a hand, drags him to his feet and kisses him fiercely, a mixture of icing and his own come smearing across his lips. Honestly, Louis really does _try_ not to laugh.

“You really do like me then, hm?” he giggles, licking his lips.

Nick hefts Louis up onto the counter and looks him dead in the eye. His expression is fairly sombre, but it looks like he’s fighting back a smile. “I fucking hate you with every fibre of my being,” is what he says, eyebrow arched as though he’s challenging Louis.

“Mm,” Louis hums mock-thoughtfully. “You think I’m well fit, though.”

“You could say that, yeah,” he grins, finally allowing himself to smile. And then they’re kissing again, and it’s sweet, not just because of the icing and the marzipan, and Louis’ glad, for once, that they’re not at each other’s throats.

\-----------

When the pair of them head back out into the garden - once Nick's pinned Louis against the wall with a knee between his legs and Louis' rubbed off against his thigh - Nick has his arm slung around Louis' waist to hold him upright, as the kid's a little dick-drunk and tipsy from the wine he'd chugged beforehand. Louis has the fingers of one hand curled into the front of Nick's icing-stained shirt, and they're both still a little bit sticky despite Nick giving them both a once-over with a flannel. Louis' giggling into the side of Nick's neck, still laughing even as he spots Harry staring at them from the other side of the garden, face twisted like he's not sure whether to laugh hysterically or break down in tears.

**Author's Note:**

> hey! thank u! love u!


End file.
